Chapter Text
The house was brighter than Sansa remembered. Three years ago, it had been cavernous and lonely, a pit for her to wallow in her fear and grief. But then, three years ago she had been fifteen, hopelessly naive, and foolishly in love with the Prince — now the King. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and steeled herself against those memories. It would do no good to dwell.
“Well?” Robb asked, startling her.
They were still standing in the foyer, and she saw the concern in his eyes when he looked at her. Something hardened in her heart, and she felt the old mask falling into place again.
“You’ve never been here, have you?” she remembered. He wouldn’t have lived here while he was at school, and he hadn’t left the North since Father died.
“Come on,” Arya said, bounding down the stairs. “We’ll show you.” She grabbed Robb’s arm, pulling him along, and Sansa followed, laughing.
Their house wasn’t much like the houses — mansions — of the other old families who kept permanent homes in town. It was a large, imposing thing situated on the northern side of the city near the Old Gate, a respectable enough neighborhood, if not a fashionable one. But they were Starks, and fashionable wasn’t their main consideration in a house; even Winterfell would be considered plain by Southern standards. This house — though slightly more decorated, owing to the standards of town — had been in the family for generations, since the days of the Conquest, and didn’t look as if it had been updated since.
“I asked around the neighborhood, and they think it’s haunted,” Arya said gleefully. “A few years ago, they would see lights moving around in the windows at night sometimes, but never saw anyone enter or leave.”
Their view of the grounds didn’t dissuade thoughts of hauntedness; in front, bordered by a rusting iron-spiked fence, was a small godswood, no doubt intended, at one point, to provide a picturesque walk up to the house. Almost like a garden, albeit a wilder sort. But years of neglect had let it run very wild indeed — overtaking the crumbling statues of giant, snarling direwolves that flanked the front doors.
They had a lot of work cut out for them, Sansa reflected.
First, they explored the labyrinthine ground floor — Sansa cringed at the furnishings in the drawing room; everything was sturdy, well-made, and obviously cared for in their absence, but decades outdated.
“Perhaps I’ll make some new cushions,” she said blithely, and Robb snickered at her.
The dining room was a little better — sturdy, classic pieces there — and there were a couple of little empty rooms she could use as a morning room or parlor, assuming she could find furniture for that purpose. Quietly, Sansa resolved to filch the ugliest pieces from all over the house to keep there and commission new pieces to be made in their place; that could be acceptable, assuming they wouldn’t be expected to entertain in those small rooms.
They found the long, narrow library, and Sansa flinched when she saw the empty shelves — she had quite forgotten her outburst three years prior. It was only a few shelves that were bare, she considered. If she rearranged the rest it wouldn’t look so sparse, but it would still be prudent to purchase more to fill in the gaps.
Barred doors led to a huge ballroom, fallen into disrepair. “Who do you think last had a ball here?” she wondered aloud. The last Stark who had officially taken residence here was their grandfather, but she hadn’t thought the purpose of his time in town was to entertain.
Upstairs wasn’t any better than down, but it was tolerable as Sansa didn’t expect to be entertaining guests in her bedroom. She sat in a hard chair at her dressing table and resolved to embroider a new set of cushions for the house. This could be livable, but they weren’t savages.
Passing back through her room, she set aside a couple of cases from where her maid was beginning to unpack — the staff at this house was new, all of them, and she would have to learn names — and then knocked at Robb’s door.
“I was going to take Arya on some errands,” she explained. “I have to leave a card for Margaery Tyrell, and I also wanted to look at books, and Arya and I both need to order new gowns.”
“What?” Arya’s head poked down from the landing a floor up.
“You’re sixteen,” Sansa said tiredly, as they rehashed the same argument for the dozenth time. “It’s time for you to come out into society.”
“I don’t want to be out,” Arya complained. “Boys are stupid.”
“As your brother, that’s exactly what I want to hear,” Robb teased, “but you’re growing up, and this is part of it.” As Arya launched into the familiar pattern of complaints about proper society, he said in an undertone to Sansa, “Why don’t you rest today? We’ve only just arrived. I doubt even Margaery Tyrell will take offense if you don’t call the very day you arrive in town.”
Sansa shook her head. Margaery Tyrell was the reason she had come back to the capitol; one didn’t refuse a formal invitation from the future Queen. “You don’t understand how things work here,” she told him.
Arya scowled when Sansa came to collect her. “We’ll get to drive past the mansions on the waterfront,” Sansa promised, but that had only darkened her sister’s expression.
“Why do I want to see a bunch of stupid rich people’s houses?” she grumbled as Sansa marched her out into the waiting carriage.
They went around Rhaenys’s Hill to the bay, skirting the Street of Silk and avoiding Flea Bottom entirely. Arya forgot herself long enough to stare at those sights through new eyes, but Sansa restrained herself so as not to look so provincial. It had been several years, but she had seen all of this before.
Instead, she wondered if Willas Tyrell was in town yet. She knew he held his father’s seat on the Large Council, but there were still a few days before the Session started. Mr. Tyrell had been writing to her — to Mr. Stone — for almost a year, now. After the book had been published, Mr. Stone had started writing articles. In the wake of a particularly controversial article on divorce law, Mr. Tyrell’s first letter had come through along with the regular load of vitriol. To this day, Sansa thanked the gods that she had opened it instead of throwing it away with the rest.
Mr. Tyrell was different from most men. He had written asking for Mr. Stone’s thoughts about women’s inclusion in the legislature, so as to give better voice to their issues; this had prompted Sansa to do more research on the topic and write a series of articles to be published alongside the next Session of the Large Council. By chance, it was perfectly timed with the major controversy of that Session, and it had taken only a moment’s work to tailor the remaining articles to Miss Tarth’s circumstances.
Allyn Stone had emerged from the fiasco as a major name in that political sphere; Lord Baelish had promoted her, giving her a weekly column in one of his major papers. Mr. Tyrell had written again, most congratulatory, and, impulsively, Sansa had written back, thanking him for his part in directing her attention to the issue and including a Wintertown address so that they might continue correspondence directly.
She felt that she’d gotten to know him quite well, since then.
Invariably, Mr. Tyrell’s letters were intelligent and full of insight — and, more than that, understanding and compassion. She could tell when she raised a point he had not considered, and he didn’t grow defensive as many would. She was both excited and terrified that she might have the opportunity to meet him — would he live up to the image she’d constructed in her mind, or would he disappoint her entirely?
Sansa didn’t know when the vision in her head of the perfect man stopped being the golden prince she wished Joffrey had been. It had turned into a man more quiet and compassionate, intelligent and well-spoken, sometimes inclined towards rambling, but always willing to listen.
After she’d left her card at the grand Tyrell mansion, which had a splendid view of Blackwater Bay, Sansa wondered if there was anyone else she should leave a card for. None of their former acquaintances had bothered to keep up the relationship after they’d left King’s Landing suddenly all those years ago. With spite, Sansa thought the upkeep of all those friendships couldn’t fall on her shoulders entirely, and if they were offended, so be it.
Only family, she decided, and left a card for Uncle Edmure — a fashionable address a block off of the Street of Sisters. Aunt Lysa had retired to the Eyrie since the death of her husband, Sansa remembered, and Great-Uncle Brynden would be with her.
The Street of Steel had been the place to buy armor and swords in centuries past, but as time went on and the need was not so great, armorer’s shops began to be replaced by fashionable dressmakers and milliners. There were still some fine blacksmiths near the top of Visenya’s hill, making swords for gentlemen who fenced or who wished to give themselves a dangerous edge by carrying them, but ladies never ventured that way except to visit the Sept.
At the dressmaker’s, bolts of silks and satins covered the walls, and Sansa looked longingly at the bright colors. It had been almost two years since Father died, and though they were no longer required to wear black, Sansa still didn’t feel right leaving her mourning clothes behind. Not when she might have been the one who caused it…
Arya seemed to have similar feelings; when pressed to pick out fabrics, she invariably chose shades of grey, and Sansa had little energy or inclination to complain.
“Two walking dresses and an evening gown, cut to the same length,” Sansa decided. Arya was careless enough to ruin anything longer, dragging the hems through mud and brambles— “And Arya, at least pick a lavender or something with a bit of color.”
Scowling, Arya pointed at a bolt of lavender muslin.
“Thank you,” Sansa said, determined not to react to the scowl.
For herself, Sansa picked out a variety of soft pastels — a step outside of mourning, but still not too ostentatious — but looked longingly at a bright cobalt blue that would perfectly complement her eyes.
As they left for the bookstore, Sansa grabbed ahold of Arya’s hand. “Thank you,” she said again, “for not making that too difficult.”
“I’m not a child anymore,” Arya protested, cross, and yanked her hand away.
The biggest bookstore in town — several stories tall, and crammed to bursting with shelves that held books of every genre imaginable — was on the Central Square. They parted ways when they entered — Arya scampering off upstairs, while Sansa wound her way through to where newer, more political books were kept, intent on finding Brienne Tarth’s latest.
Sansa had taken a special interest in Miss Tarth’s career, seeing as it had launched her own. Brienne Tarth was an oddity in King’s Landing — the only woman to date who had served on the Large Council in any capacity. Last year, the succession on Tarth became a matter of national interest when Lord Selwyn Tarth ceded his seat on the Large Council to his only heir, and — by a combination of the Council’s ignorance of the island’s ruling family and the lady’s preference for male clothing — no one realized that “Mr. Tarth” was a woman until she had already attended several gatherings of the Large Council.
Her claim to the seat was swiftly returned to her father, who just as quickly named her his absentee delegate. Eventually, a compromise was reached where she was allowed to participate in Council sessions — minus the right to cast her own votes. Despite being a frequent speaker on the Council floor, she lately had begun to spread her ideas further — publishing numerous articles and, now, a book.
When Sansa found it — On the Economic Independence of Women — she pulled one down from the shelf and flipped the cover open, reveling in the scent of leather, ink, and freshly-cut paper. She skimmed through the table of contents, smiling at what she found there — chapters discussing women’s contributions to the textile industry, their lack of diverse opportunities and exclusion from vast swathes of the workforce, and their forced reliance upon a husband or male relatives. Brienne Tarth’s writings always inspired a good deal of thought, and Sansa couldn’t wait to begin reading it this evening.
She closed the cover again, turned without looking, and almost barreled directly into a man standing there. “Pardon me,” she squeaked, stopping short so as not to hit him — her face heated with embarrassment at almost running the man down, then flushed even more when she looked up and saw that he was very handsome. That didn’t matter — it shouldn’t matter — because she’d learned long ago that beauty wasn’t an indicator of goodness.
“Not at all!” he exclaimed. “You’ve caught me watching you, I’m afraid, but my excuse will be that I’ve never before seen anyone look so happily at Brienne Tarth’s work.”
“You disagree with her, then?” Sansa asked, frowning up at him. He was taller than her, with wavy brown hair and dimples where he was smiling. It was so unfair, she thought.
“No, I quite agree with her. It’s only that her writing is so grim.”
He immediately grew handsomer in her eyes, and she smiled shyly up at him. “It’s fitting, then, because the subject matter is itself grim.”
“That is true,” he said, smiling back at her. He opened his mouth to say something else, but—
“I’m ready,” Arya said, plopping a volume about Braavosi swordplay into Sansa’s arms.
“Arya!” Sansa gasped at her rudeness, but the man only laughed. His was a kind laugh — not the cutting laughter Sansa had grown used to in her time at court — and it made his eyes crinkle, so that Sansa couldn’t help but let her own smile grow wider.
“I’m the eldest of four, myself,” was all he needed to say as explanation. “I’ll let you go then, Miss, and apologize for taking up so much of your time.”
“Not at all,” she tried to get out, but he was already limping away. His cane was not just an accessory, she realized — he was putting a fair amount of his weight on it.
Sansa sifted through the books Arya had given her. “A Lady's Justice?” she asked, holding up the novel that had been tucked under the hefty tome on swordplay.
“It’s been the talk of the town, and I thought you cared about what all those people think. We’ll look stupid if we can’t at least make passing conversation,” she insisted.
Sansa narrowed her eyes, knowing Arya was more interested in shocking people rather than any care for their reputations, but she agreed.